Hotel California
by SuperVikinggirl
Summary: Sam and Dean are on a hunt in a run down hotel, and it just seems to not go their way. Hurt! Dean, Awesome! Hurt! Sam. I hope you like this, it is my very first story ever. Please be fore warned. My Sam and Dean do tend to curse. I just think they would if they were real. Please review, i'd love to hear from you.


Hotel California

"Sammy?"

It was a small child-like plea that set Sam into the second blind panic in about 45 seconds. The first was catching a glimpse from the corner of his eye of Dean's spectacular tumble down the sprawling luxurious brass and marble staircase of the Royal Sandringham Hotel.

It was a staircase designed 90 years ago to give brides and debutantes their grand entrance before joining the ostentatious receptions in the one of four ballrooms. And despite the decay and deterioration of almost 17 years of being forgotten by time and modern conveniences, you could still glimpse the glamour and sumptuousness that had once made this hotel a house-hold name in years gone by.

"Sam?" Dean's voice seemed even smaller than the first time he called for his brother.

"Dean!" Sam acknowledged from the second balcony overlooking the main hotel foyer and that long, wide, marble hard staircase before running hell-bent to get to his brother's side.

"Dean, I'm coming."

Sam had his sawed-off at the ready, as he scrambled down the stairs, eyes scanning for any sign of the ghost that was playing monkey-in-the-middle with the Winchester brothers.

She had first played 'dolls' with Sam in the smaller ballroom, spinning him off his feet in a mock waltz before discarding her new play-toy by throwing Sam into the stage. Head first. This time, it seems that she thought that Dean was a bouncing ball. Except, he didn't bounce. Much.

Sam paused as he got halfway down the stairs and his still slightly blurry eyes caught sight of his older brother's crumpled, awkwardly heaped form on the floor. He looked much like the tossed-aside rag doll Dean teased Sam of being not an hour previous in the ballroom. Only right away he knew this was bad.

"Oh, god. Dean."

Dean slowly looked up at his little brother with an apologetic smile, as Sam closed the short distance between them.

"My leg's busted, isn't it?" Dean slightly slurred

"Oh, yeah. It's busted, Dean….but, CRAP…" Sam's pained, shocked look warned Dean that it wasn't perhaps exactly what it seemed.

"What?" Dean demanded.

"Ah, it's not just broken, Dean…"

"What?" Dean growled, getting pissed off at most likely being side-lined for the fun part of this hunt and tried to turn himself to get a better look at his leg. "OW! Fuck! Hurts, Sam…I can't…"

"I bet….It's a compound fracture, Dean. – You've got bone…." Sam sat on his knees beside his sprawled brother, feeling nauseous and not just because of the header HE took earlier. Seeing Dean's fibula, white, glistening with blood and poking out where it had no right to be, was just not what Sam ever wanted to see.

"Dammit! Not again!" Snarled the elder hunter.

"Dean – is that the same leg as before?" Sam asked getting a closer look, trying to get a handle on the blood oozing out of Dean's leg.

"Huh? Yeah….I think we salted and burned the wrong ghost, Sammy…." Dean voice was getting quiet and small again. And Sam was concerned that Dean might be going into shock.

"Yeah, I got that Dean…Did you get her with your Iron knife?" Sam wanted to get him thinking about something other than his bone peek-a-booing outside of his leg and he was beginning to wonder where that ghost went.

"Not sure – that was the same time I got the Ferris wheel ride down those stairs…" the elder hunter gesture slightly with his hand, as he swallowed against the pain.

"Well, if it wasn't Sandringham thinking we could fly…." Sam started, wanting to keep Dean focused on something other than his injuries or the pain they were causing, while he tried to turn his mind to how to get Dean out of here.

"Yeah, I'm thinking two ghosts. There were definite sightings of old man Sandringham himself. I'm thinking maybe he was keeping that pale-faced bitch in check before we...um, put an end to that." Dean's voice hitched and his eyes closed tight against the pain at the last bit as Sam gently used a bandana from his pocket to stem the sluggish ooze of blood escaping out of his leg.

"Like that haunted painting in New Paltz years ago?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, we messed up that one too, didn't we? But at least it meant you got to spend time with Sarah." Dean smirked.

"Hmm." Sam was not biting on that hook. "So, you're thinking the missing daughter? Did you get a good look at the spirit? Is it her?"

"I didn't get a good look, but it's a chick ghost. It made you dance! Probably thought you were a girl with all that hair" Dean chuckled tightly at his own joke but abruptly stopped and winced in pain.

"That will teach you to make fun of my hair… I guess she does kind of fit."

The younger hunter leaned back away from his older brother, knowing that to get him out of the dilapidated hotel, into safety and into medical attention, his only choice was to immobilize Dean's broken leg, but other than marble chunks and broken brass, there was nothing close by to use. And he was trying so hard not to show the brain-numbing, overwhelming panic his pounding head was losing a battle with.

"Sam, all the disappearances in the 1920's stopped right after she vanished with that jazz musician." Dean reminded his voice a little hoarse and taut.

"Ok, we need to come back. I need to do some more research and – you need a hospital, Dean."

"Oh, come on, Sam! Just help me up…" he whined.

"Dean! Are you completely insane?!" Sam roared.

"That is a compound fracture! Your bone is on your outside, not your inside where it's supposed to be! I-I can't help you with that! If I move you, you could do permanent damage to your leg, OR, bleed out! And right now, although you are bleeding, it's not too bad. But one tiny move the wrong way and…" Sam voice escalated with all his worry and frustration, pissed that Dean never took his own injuries seriously. And, this WAS a serious injury, and Sam knew he couldn't patch this up, Dean needed a hospital and…and probably his own flight into the ballroom stage had him feeling a bit more emotional than usual…

"Sam, you're bleeding. – forehead." Dean's small voice was back.

"You're just noticing that now?" Sam was really confused about Dean, because a moment ago he was teasing Sam and then he was whining…Sam shot out his hand and grabbed at Dean's face. "Concussion, Dean? Let me look at you…"

"What? No…I don't think so. Don't remember hitting my head…"

"Yeah, Dean. That could be a symptom…" Sam previous anger dissipated and his hand reach out to search Dean's head for any lumps or contusions. "You're squinting against the dim light, and I bet you're nauseous…" Sam listed as he began lightly feeling for signs of a head-injury.

"Yeah. I'm nauseous because I have a compound fracture, remember?" He threw at his younger brother.

"Um, yes, I remember. I have the front row seats, I can see it right now. Blech! Do you remember?" Sam countered getting a little pissed off, again. Until he found it. A lump, about the size of a golf ball near the base of his neck and as he pulled away his hand Sam could see blood on his fingers.

"Ow, Sam, that hurts. But I don't feel…"

"I'm going to go with yes, concussion. What else hurts, Dean? Why can't you turn to look at your funky bone now decorating your jeans?

"I'm just sore Sam. A man doesn't do a spectacular Olympic Style dive off the stairs and not be sore! Now help me up, let's get outta here so we can come back tonight."

"Dean – you're NOT coming back here tonight!"

"Well, you're not coming back here tonight, alone! …Or at least not without a girl…" Dean smiled mischievously until he remember the ghost again. "No, not at all without me covering your back. This bitch is dangerous!"

"Sam," he continued. Dean's burst of adrenalin seemed to have been used up in the exchange with his brother. "They're continuing salvaging this hotel next week so they can prep for demolition next month. They only closed down for the architect's funeral on Friday, they'll be back to it. More people will die if we don't shut this bitch down."

Sam sighed, rubbing his aching forehead, eyes closed momentarily while trying to think.

"You know Sam, you took quite the header earlier…I know your head is killin' you making it hard to think …." Dean kept his eyes on his brother, trying to judge Sam's head injury while sporting his own possible concussion impairment.

"I'm fine Dean, I'm not – look, if its Sandringham's missing daughter, we have no idea where she's buried. No one does. Legends say she ran off with that Jazz Musician. She could be anywhere…."

"Nice changing the topic, by the way…But something is keeping her here, Sam – "

"_IF_ it's Sandringham's daughter…" Sam pointed out.

"Ya, but it fits…Sammy, help me up.-"Dean said as he noted Sam's sudden bitchface and arms which suddenly crossed his chest. "Look, I just want to sit up…maybe lean against the stair case? Huh, please?"

Sam sighed again, "Ok, but don't move your leg and for God's sake, don't shift any weight on it. God, I shouldn't…the risk, Dean…" Sam gently put his arms around Dean's chest, "Got ya, ok, now…up…"

"AH! Fuck! ...OW! …Shoulder...Ah! God! Sam, down…" Dean gasped, his breathing erratic then slumped in Sam's shaking arms, as he gently put his injured brother back down flat on the marble floor.

"Dean! Dean? Stay with me, Dean! No passing out!" Sam's voice rattled with dread, stomach clenching while palming his brother's cheek seeking any indication that his big brother could still hear him.

It seemed like eternity, but then he saw it. Dean's closed lids fluttered. "Talk to me Dean!"

Half-closed green orbs caught his brother's hazel eyes. "Holy crap…" Dean whispered, his breathing still not evened out.

"Shoulder..?" Sam prompted

"Yeah." His response was short and between breaths. "Shifted….an, ribs" his face was tense and positively green with pain and nausea.

"Um, ok, l'm going to….just…see…." Sam warned his brother as he carefully pulled aside Dean's jacket and shirt, then pulled up his t-shirt, seeing the bright purpling there. He first traced Dean's ribs with his fingers lightly probing until he felt the sponginess of broken bone and Dean gasped audibly. Then Sam slowly pulled the t-shirt to get a look at Dean's purple and blue shoulder. Lightly feeling around his shoulder until he pushed gently and it…moved.

"Sam! OW! Fuck!" Dean yelled, blinking the dots away and swallowing the bile back down. "Crap, Sam! Stop with the man-handling already!"

"You're a mess, Dean." Sam said flatly, his fingers massaging his temples, trying to keep his emotions under the patented Winchester tight reins and trying to soothe the pulsing pain there. "You have one busted rib and I think one cracked one. And your shoulder just by the socket is definitely broken. You need an ambulance…"

"Can't, bro…Ghost." He panted.

"Dean, I can't move you…please. You need…" Sam pleaded. He looked just like a sad puppy but Dean knew he had to make his brother understand, no matter what.

"Sam…can't let anyone…in here…Ghost, she's a….a killer. Something is keeping…her here. We just gotta find it." Dean explained, trying to breathe though the pain just like Dad taught them, then placed his good hand on his little brother, grounding him, trying to keep Sam focused. "Sam…what do we know, about the daughter?"

As much as he hated it, he knew Dean was right. How could he in all good conscience call for help, when he'd be calling them into this danger. He couldn't. He just couldn't put anyone else at risk even though he knew that Dean needed medical help. So he took a deep breath and tried to think about the job, hoping that something, some way would come to him. In the meantime he turned his thoughts to what he remembered from their research and interviews about Sandringham's daughter, Victoria.

"She disappeared in 1927 at the same time as the Jazz Musician. Word is that they ran off together to South America never to be seen again. It was said that the old man not happy that his daughter fell for a Jazz Musician with the wrong skin colour. They were the last of the 8 disappearances from this hotel that spanned 2 years."

"Sam? Feel that?" Dean interrupted.

"Cold…" Sam breathed out a puff of air only to see it in front him. "She's coming back – do you still have that bag of salt on you?"

"Right lower pocket" Dean no more than answered then Sam dug his fingers into his big brother's jacket, being careful of his broken bones and bruising, pulled out a bag of salt, leaped off the floor making the world and his stomach spin, and began to lay a circle of salt around his broken and pain addled brother.

"Ah, Sam?" Dean quietly called. Sam paused momentarily to shoot a worried glance at his brother and as Dean caught his brother's eye, he deliberately looked and nodded slightly to the dark corner under the stairs. "3 O'clock….Casperette…" he informed.

Sam scurried to finish the salt circle, with adrenalin pumping, he then dove over it to the opposite side by the last step to grab his discarded salt-round filled sawed off shotgun. He then twisted a half pirouette, caught a glimpse of the spectral form and 'BOOM!' fired a round right through the fiend-y ghost as she reached the edge of the circle. She dissipated in a puff just as the salt penetrated her vaporous form.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm ok."

"Did you get a good look? She looked just like that photo of Sandringham's daughter, - you know, the one; that group shot at the debutante's party, the one taken the night before she disappears?" There was an edge of excitement in his voice and Dean knew his geeky brain was chugging away, miles a minute, working out all the possibilities.

"Yeah, I remember….Sam? What if she never left? Never disappeared?" Dean asked, wondering if they were on the same page here, when suddenly something about the size of an arm comes flying out of the darkness towards the brothers.

Sam threw himself over Dean, putting his body between his brother and the flying debris, covering the back of his head with his hand, facing Dean, and got hit in the shoulder with a chunk of wood. Then a piece of marble punches into his lower back.

Sam lets of an "oomph" of pain as Dean grabbed the sawed off from this brother and re-loaded it one handed, but knowing that his shoulder would never withstand the recoil, passed it to his brother, pissed that Sam was taking all the hits. That should have been his job, but knowing that he could barely move at this moment, there was not a god-damned thing he could do about it.

The younger Winchester grabbed the gun, quickly rolled to his other side to face the open gloom of the foyer. Gun and eyes quickly scanned for the violent ghost as another piece of wood, this one four feet long spun at dizzying speeds towards the brothers. Sam instinctively tried to defect it with his arm holding the shot gun when it painfully rammed into his wrist and hand then spun and clocked him hard on the head before falling onto Dean's already painful ribs.

Sam blinked through spinning black dots clouding his vision, flexed his hand and wrist against the smarting sting in his hand and wrist then aimed the salt-rounds where he was mostly-sure the apparition was hiding and fires two rounds, spanning the shooting salt into a larger area. Sam knew he got her as the ghost made a short startling cry and the ambient temperature crept up to the normal temp.

"Dean, you ok?" Sam asks as he slowly turns to his brother, trying to keep the world on a horizontal basis.

"Just…peachy." Dean breathed while pulling the wood debris off his already broken ribs, trying to even out his breathing. No need to get Sam all worked up about injuries on top of injuries. "You?"

"She sure is a blood-thirsty ghost, I'll give you that. Dean, you sure can pick 'em." Sam mumbled distractedly as he felt through his pockets for more salt filled shells, and re-loaded. All by feel rather than his still spotty vision and all clumsy as his hand and wrist were swelling quickly.

"Hay, you picked this hunt – it's your luck with the ladies we're dealing with here…" Dean countered, then, as he looked up at his brother, "Your head's bleeding…you get pinged in the head again?!"

"What gave it away?" Sam asked blandly as he sat up slowly putting one hand out behind to support himself while his head adjusted to a new altitude.

"Hay, Dean, if you were a father, who owned a famous hotel that random people were disappearing from, never to be seen again – who would you suspect?" Sam asked as he scanned the foyer for the murderous spirit.

"Um, not my daughter" Dean answered hesitantly, unsure where his brother was going with this and worried that Sam marbles may have been scrambled a bit with that last wack of wood.

"And if you were this guy, and you caught your daughter in the act of a heinous crime, IN your pride and joy hotel….what would you do?" Sam asked a little slowly.

"Cover it up" Dean was following along now.

"And if she promised never to do it again?"

"Believe her?"

BOOM! – Sam fired the shotgun at the presence again. Dean jumped, causing him no end of pain with the sudden movement. Sam must have fired twice at the apparition because the next thing Dean knew, Sam was clumsily re-loading again, and Dean was just trying to breathe through the threat of passing out.

"So, if you…again as this guy, caught your daughter, red-handed – literally – with an up-and-coming Jazz Musician's murdered corpse, knowing that the press would never let this one go….what would you do?"

"Maybe hide?" Dean's voice was tight with pain and Sam turned to look to see if his big brother was still ok, but Dean put on his best bland look until his brain finally caught up to Sammy-speed. "Wait, Sammy. You think Sandringham _killed_ his own daughter, then hid her body and the musician's body?"

"What if his daughter was a serial killer, Dean? She lived here, grew up here, would know it inside and out like the back of her hand. Maybe she killed here?" Sam asked as Dean heard the slide of the pump action, telling Dean that Sam was ready for the spirit to show up again

"Buried her victims here? The disappearances stopped after she did her Lindbergh Baby imitation. So…where are the bodies? And why is she killing now after all these years?" Dean pondered out loud to include his little brother.

"Exactly! She'd have access to every inch of this place, to building plans even personnel. Secret passages? Rooms? There was never any evidence of foul play ever found, and who would suspect a woman in those days, let alone Sandringham's own daughter?" Sam laid out his thought for his brother.

Dean was proud. Even probably-concussed his brainiac was on a roll.

"Sam, you scoped out the basement yesterday….what was down there, any place to hide a body or more?" Dean turned his head to look closer at his brother who was still scanning the darker corners of the room, shot gun at the ready.

"Dean, there's never been any reported supernatural activity below the main floor or higher than the third. So, I don't think there is any bodies hidden in the basement…But I found a laundry room, a room that I think was for kitchen storage, a boiler room, an incinerator, and…" Sam looked at his brother, lowering his gun momentarily and they both said simultaneously "Incinerator."

"Great way to burn the evidence away, so Sandringham must have done the same." Dean reasoned quietly, eyes closed momentarily.

"So, why is she still here? And why now?" Sam questioned.

Sam was still trying to keep his brother engaged and alert, and frankly, he knew they were always at their best when they bounced their ideas and instincts off each other like this. And if it kept his brother more alert and focused while the back of Sam's mind fought for some way to help is brother, then that was good too.

"Other remains, Sammy. And now…the hotel is being stripped bare and re-conditioned for condos…"

"The remains have been disturbed!" Sam deducted. He was still bone weary, his head still squeezed with a vice-like throb and sometimes wanted to wander on its own, but now, he knew he'd have to push through all that. He needed to get to the conclusion and get his brother some help. It was still the little mantra running inside his head.

"So, where could her remains have been safely kept all this time only to be disturbed now with the start of the salvaging operations?" The elder hunter prodded.

Dean knew he wasn't at the top of his game, not even a little bit. But if he could help steer his brother to the conclusion that solved the puzzle and finish this 'floaty' bitch once-and-for-all, then, despite being broken and bleeding, he was still doing his job. Still protecting his baby brother.

And more than anything Dean needed to still be useful, especially since he couldn't help his brother in any other way. Couldn't shoot the sawed-off, couldn't get up and swing iron through the vaporous body of the spirit, he couldn't even take the hits the ghost slammed their way, although he'd still try that one given the chance. He could barely move without being in such absolute agony it made his head feel a bit like it was running in different directions, without him. But, he wasn't going to tell Sammy that!

"Wait," Dean knew his brain wasn't firing on all cylinders, and he needed to follow all the steps for his head to keep up. "That was 3 weeks ago, she started killing 2 weeks ago. So, what were the salvaging team working on two weeks ago?" Dean was trying to get his head to focus at bit more than it wanted to at the moment.

"Hay, remember the architect's wife said he'd mention about the Executive office? That it looked like it hadn't been updated since the thirties?" Sam's tiredness a moment ago, suddenly abated as an idea took hold of him and Dean could hear from Sam's voice that he was finding a second-wind as a bit of excitement was building there in Sam.

"Yeah, and he said he was going to pull out a few pieces to auction off, raise funds for the project…" Dean recalled from his talk with the devastated widow. His voice had become gravelly as his reserves were running low, his blood was still slowly dripping from Dean protruding leg bone.

"Dean, I gotta go to the office-" The younger hunter announced and he rose to his knees, steadying himself with a hand on the floor he prayed his older brother didn't see. His brother's words struck Dean deep, his mind's eye suddenly supplying all the scenarios that could possibly go wrong.

"No, Sammy, no splitting up! That bitch's whammied both of us. And as sure I am that my leg is busted – you're not 100% either. In fact, I bet the world is a bit off kilter for you." Dean tried holding onto his little brother with this hand, tried putting some strength into it, but Sammy just gently put Dean's hand back down.

"Dean, I'm ok. Really. But, I can't carry you. You're all….I gotta salt and burn whatever remains are keeping her here, so I can call you an ambulance." Sam's eyes were blurring up with tears, with fear that he was wasting too much time already. That any more delay would hurt Dean more.

"Sam…." Dean tried to reason with his little brother, but it was half hearted, he just didn't have the energy to put up a fight. He watched his little brother rooted around the area looking for something before Sam handed Dean his almost forgotten gun.

"Look, here's your sawed-off, here's a few salt-rounds. The salt ring is still ok…and the old man's office is just down that hallway. Shoot, yell…..or call me if you need me!" Sam wanted to sound confident to his brother's ears. To sound like Sam knew this was going to pan-out. But the truth was Sammy wasn't so sure, well, we was mostly sure. Fairly sure. And he had to bet his brother's well-being on it. And that made all the voices, from their past, scream at him in his head.

"Sam." Dean tried to catch Sam's attention, trying to deter his little brother form wandering off alone where he couldn't see him, couldn't help Sammy.

"You'll be ok, Dean. Besides, if I'm right, she'll more than likely follow me." Sam put more conviction in his voice than he felt, but was gone from Dean's side before he could be convinced otherwise.

"Yeah, Sam. That's exactly what I am afraid of!"

Chapter 2

Part of Sam couldn't believe that he just left his brother there lying on the floor broken and bleeding, and most likely closer to passing out that he wanted to admit to.

He just left him there. In danger, with the ghost still on the loose. It didn't sit well with him, he didn't like it at all and it went against every tenant, every lesson that John Winchester instilled into his sons about hunting, about family and about having each other's back. And he knew, that Sam leaving his brother, was pretty much Dean's worst nightmare. He didn't ever want to hurt his brother.

It said a lot to how desperate Sam was.

He was desperate to get Dean out of there, to get him to a hospital, to get him the medical help Dean needed because Dean's injuries were just not something Sam could bandage or stitch up. He had three broken bones, and the one was a compound fracture. God, the pain Dean must be in for that alone!

Just the thought of the bone sticking out of Dean's skin almost sent Sam to his knees puking. But he didn't, he swallowed it down, breathed through the spasms and kept moving down the hall. One arm was stretched out to the wall keeping his balance in the dark, keeping him from leaning just a bit too far….of course that could be the two blows to the head he's suffered in the last…..what? Two hours?

_Nah, couldn't be – him loosing time?_ Sam thought somewhat annoyed at himself. _That's sounding like a concussion to me Winchester._ He finally allowed the possibility to be acknowledged. And wondered why Dean hadn't noticed. _Oh, wait. He did, didn't he? _Sam sighed_. Great now I'm forgetting too_, another symptom, he knew.

But, Sam was the one who could still stand on his own two feet, so he was the one who had to finish this hunt and get them both out of harm's way.

Sam found himself wondering how Dean was faring as he suddenly realized that he was standing amidst a series of signed doors denoting this was the administrative offices of the Royal Sandringham Hotel. He knew that Sandringham's office would be here and he hoped that he would find the remains of the Hotel Owner's serial murderer of a daughter, who was re-living her nefarious hobbling even though she was long dead.

It was a hunch, and Sam hoped to everything he had that it was right. But Sam and Dean usually followed their hunches and their intuition about the supernatural, especially Dean – and usually they were right.

Except for Sam – when he was wrong, boy was he ever wrong. Wrong like Ruby, wrong like killing Lilith and starting the apocalypse, wrong like not looking for Dean when he was trapped in Purgatory. Shit, what if he was wrong now? And he left Dean, again? Just left him lying there in his own pool of blood, with a broken shoulder bone so he can barely shoot a gun?

Sam's fear and self-doubt was starting to overwhelm him. He knew he needed to get a handle on it, tap it down, get on with the search so he could get back to Dean. He knew he wasn't normally like this. Normally as soon as the gun was out and the hunt was on, everything else went on the backburner. The hunt was the only thing in focus. It was what their father had taught them, well, that and to have each other's backs….and Dean was certainly not at his back right now because he left him, lying on the floor in pain and bleeding. With a bone sticking out of his leg….

He only hoped that the serial killing bitch of a ghost would follow him and leave Dean well alone.

Sam shook his head, trying to get his roller coasting emotions back on track, trying to get his head back in the game, focused on finding those remains and quickly too. But he only managed to shake the black dots, the lazy spin of the world and the queasiness back. That was a dumb idea, Sam berated himself. He had to take a moment to breathe and push through the worst of it so that he could move on. He could focus.

Next thing he realized was that the door he'd been looking for was suddenly right in front of him. When did that happen? The lettering on the door said Alexandre Milano, Executive Officer. He was the last CEO of the hotel before it' close in 1997. The same office that had been Sandringham's from when he built the hotel to his tenure as first owner, then later as CEO.

Sam put his hand on the door, the other held his shotgun at the ready, already loaded with salt rounds. He quietly turned the nob, the quick as lightning, opened the door, leaped in as he scanned the room for

Sam's concern of a hunch gone wrong escalated , but was quelled when he noticed the large blood stain on the rotting carpet below his feet reminding him that this was where the architect was killed. He might just be on the right path here after all.

The office was well illuminated by a row of tall, grime covered windows along the back wall. The other three walls were covered in what once would have been painted wood. There were layers of it peeling off. The top layers an attempt at updated the original gold and silver wood with carved lotus blossoms and other art deco motifs. All the rage in the roaring twenties.

Sam had seen the photos of the office during his research, and now that he was here it was a lot less impressive as most of the carved wood was now damaged with chunks missing and the paint layers peeled to reveal almost a century of colours. A good portion of the left wall wood panelling had already been dismantled reverently and neatly stacked on the floor.

The right wall held a massive built in cabinet decorated with clean wood moulding and again now looking forgotten, battered with time, wood rot in a visible state of decay matching the massive, obviously heavy wooden desk occupying the middle of the room. Sam could see that it had once been black with gold decorations which was also now peeling and cracked. Sam tried to move it wondering about secrets underneath but the desk was most definitely bolted to the floor and had been for many years.

Sam quickly set to work, opening doors and drawers, tapping for hollowness, secret compartments and false panels. Feeling along panels and mouldings looking for hidden buttons and levers.

After Sam had pretty much exhausted every possibility, every desk compartment, every cabinet corner and hollow, every inch of baseboard, every corner, every sculpted piece of wood until his head was pounding between his temples, positively throbbing at the base of his skull where flying wood made an impact with his noggin. He was just thinking he'd gotten it all wrong as he back up and leaned against the window sill, just for a moment, just to catch his breath.

He bent his head down, breathing in and out in measured breaths, trying to push the twinges around his brain and hopefully figure out what he's missed or at least what the next step should be. When his downcast eyes spied something odd. He noticed that on the carpet in front of the wood baseboard and panel below the window, there is no dust, no residue of debris like there is everywhere else. He drops to his knee and faces the window. Puts his gun down and began probing every square inch of that wood panelling from the glass to the floor.

It took Sam less than two seconds to notice the drop in temperature. She was here, in this room, watching him – and he knows. Knows that he is right. The hunch was true, her remains are here. And he knows that she is going to do everything in her powers to stop Sam.

And Sam will not let her, not one tiny bit. Dean is counting on him and after everything he's done to his brother, after all the disappointment he's caused him, Sam will not let him down, not now. Not again.

In the blink of an eye Sam grabs the gun, turns himself around, leans his back against the wood under the window and waits for Sandringham's daughter to reveal herself.

And just to get this party started, he plucked a page from his brother's book of tricks and hurls taunts at the fugly. "I know where it is!" Sam boasts loudly, "And I'm going to destroy it and you with it!"

With that jibe thrown, he heard a roar as two hands materialized right in front of him and grabbed his throat squeezing it with supernatural strength. Sam was gasping for air immediately, tears filled the corners of his eyes in response to the acute pain of translucent hands trying to cut off his oxygen supply. His swollen right hand trying to pull invisible hands away, his left flexing on the sawed-off shotgun he held. He leveled the gun and squeezed the trigger sending a myriad of salt grains into the spirit, driving her away to recoup her powers again.

Sam only gave himself a few seconds to recover before flipping around to finish probing the panel. And then he found it! A small button hidden beneath decorative scroll-work. He pushed it, releasing a catch-piece of the paint-peeling wood panel. Sam winced at the throb in his right hand and wrist as he had to pull and pry a bit at the wood. The panel had been sealed with old paint and the mechanism to open the panel had seized with rust and age over the years, but finally he pried it free revealing a secret compartment no one suspected all these years.

He reached in his good hand and pulled out a small ladies hand clutch. It was slightly bigger than his hand, was yellowed with age, and was obviously made of silk covered in semiprecious stones and silk ribbon embroidery. The colours all but faded out over the years and at the top was a pure silver clasp.

It was hers, he knew it. Now he just needed to find the remains in it, salt it and burn it. Sam turned the purse around in his hand and began to open the delicate clasp. As it clicked open he suddenly felt air beneath him, felt surreally disoriented as the world spun wickedly around him until his shoulder and head connected hard against the wood cabinet he searched earlier. The wood yielded, splintered and gave under the strain with a great noisy crunch of splintering wood.

Sam came-to suddenly, all his instincts warning him of danger, but it took a few moments for his still spinning head to catch up to his memories and understand that the spirit of Sandringham's daughter could not ever get her mitts on that purse. That he needed to salt and burn it, like now!

He cautiously opened his eyes a fraction, blinked painfully against the sunlight dappling office and eyed the room around him, careful not to make a sound or move to warn the spirit of his intentions. It took only a few more deliberate blinks until he recognized the glowing translucent form gowned in a white dress from the late 1920's. She was standing over the clutch she hadn't held in almost 90 years. Then she slowly reached down for it.

Sam could not let that happen.

He quickly looked around for the shot-gun missing from his hands, knowing right now, that was his only chance. He caught sight of it less than a body-length away to his right. He must have let it go when his body was slammed into the cabinet, and it fell. He knew if he stretched his right arm out and pushed his body forward with his feet he should be able to reach it, and salvation for his brother with it!

He began by tentatively shifting his weight to his left side a bit. With that slight shift, he felt that something wasn't right. His right arm was trapped under his body, he would have to roll further on his left side to free his dominate hand, the arm he should shoot one-handed with. Sam began to roll further on his left side slowly, trying to limit his movements as not to draw attention to his 'big move'. Next, he started to pull his arm out from under his weight so he could reach the shot-gun.

Sam had to bite down a scream as pure agony shot through his right shoulder, then down his arm and settled for bouncing around his skull. He was on the verge of passing out, fighting so hard not to move or make any noise and his mind kept repeating '_gun, gun, and gun'_. The mantra kept him focused, kept him moving.

He had to reach for it. There was no other choice. This time he knew he was going to draw attention, there was nothing for it. So he gathered all his strength, all his reserves that he had left. Pushed his body with his feet like a frog, shot out his left hand while biting his cheek against the pain. He scrabbled more with his feet until his left hand hit the wood stock and he grabbed it, just as the air around him grew spectacularly cold. Just as Sandringham's ghostly daughter stood over Sam. Leaned over him, reaching her spectral hand towards his heart.

The hunter spasmed his legs and back, flipping over, pulling the gun towards the ghost as her hands reached through his body around his heart and began to squeeze it still, like she had squeezed his neck earlier.

And just as both the ghost and Dean heard the rapport of the sawed off firing, they both knew that it was finished.

Sandringham's daughter dissipated, Sam forced himself to keep going, to grab the purse. Reached into his pockets for salt, lighter fluid and lighter, torching the clutch, contents and all never having opened it. Never seeing what Sandringham had tucked inside of it, what gruesome part of his daughter's remains laid lovingly and longingly inside.

And as the flame burst forth, Sam momentarily heard her scream with hate and frustration, saw a flash of flames shot up in a human shape before disappearing, forever.

"Good riddance." Sam murmured.

It took a few bars before Sam realized that his phone was ringing. It was playing the annoying hard rock tune his brother set on Sam's phone letting him know it was his big brother calling. Sam fumbled through his pocket until he pressed the button accepting the call and it took a few additional moments until it was by his ear.

"SAMMY!" yelled the rough voice on the other side

"Dean…" Sam slowly whispered back

"Is it over" the elder hunter asked

"Yeah," was all Sam could respond.

There was a pause, then Dean asked "Can you come back?"

"No. Dizzy….colours."

"Kay…" Dean said. His voice sounded odd, far away

Sam tried to get up, tried to impress his big brother, but he just didn't have the energy. He blinked and then noticed that blood was dripping in his eye and down his cheek.

"Huh, head bleeding 'gain, Dean" Sam complained.

"'M callin' 911 – then call you back. Kay?" Dean's voice seemed to float away.

"Sure…" Sam wasn't even sure he said it or just thought it. He meant to say it to Dean, to let him know he heard. But that was before the whole world blacked out, and so did Sam.

Chapter 3

Dean felt the lax hand on top of his lightly tighten over his own. He immediately opened his sleepy green eyes to lean closer to his little brother, to get a better look at Sammy's currently fluttering eyelids.

"Sammy?!" the elder Winchester called softly yet with enough spine in it that should Sammy hear it, he'd know it's high-time to get conscious.

The hand on top of Dean's gave a light squeeze again making Dean's lip curl upwards with a genuine smile.

"That's it little brother, time to look at your fabulous brother! Come on, open them. Say 'hi'! I'm so bored sitting here with no one to talk back at me." Dean's words seemed at odds with the heartfelt encouragement his tone told.

"D'n?" came a breathy croak from the hospital bed.

"That's my name, bro. Now I know you're awake, you'd better open those eyes of yours…."

"Tired"

"I know, but I'm bored and I'm the oldest so you just have to."

And with that Sam's hazel eyes peaked out from under heavy lids and large pupils roamed for the one face he knew was here. The only one he needed to see. He had to turn his head slightly to the right to find him – But there he was. Dean.

"Hay, brother. I'm here. So, other than tired, how'd you feel?

"Hurt….Head hurts…hm, shoulder too." Sam's eyes where still not open completely and his speech wasn't at his usual Einstein level.

"I bet. You managed to scramble your eggs pretty good there, so the Doc's couldn't give you the good stuff for your other…boo-boos."

"Boo-boos, Dean?" Sam slurring teased.

"You remember what Boo-boos are, don't ya Sammy?" Dean leaned back amused and happy.

"-Ya-" Sam replied cautiously

"Good, then. So. Brother, do you know where you are?" Dean asked casually.

There was a slight pause again before Sam replied "Hospital"

"Yeppers! And do you know what city we're in?" Dean quizzed.

"Um…um…Portland" Sam ventured sleepily.

"Ah, no….'Kay, um, do you remember the job we were working?"

"Hotel….ghost… Cinne-ham" Sam replied, wondering what the hell was up with the twenty questions when all Sam wanted to do was sleep. God he was so tired.

"Ok, I'll take that. You remember what happened?"

"She-ghost threw me – landed on my head?" Dean nodded tentatively under Sam's questioning gaze before Sam's eyes suddenly blew wide and his face paled, sending Dean almost into a panic and calling the medical staff until Sam continued "then you cart-wheeled down the stairs….You ok, Dean?"

That was when Dean realized that Sam was panicking about him and Dean knew he had to put his brother at ease right away. "Yeah, Sam. I'm fine. Good really. Really, really fine-good."

"Dean? You stoned?" Sam asked cautiously.

"Um – " Dean honestly thought about it before replying, being equally honest. "Think so…Yeah. Yep." And then he smiled a mischievous cheesy grin "Definitely. They gave me the good stuff, Sammy. Made me." Dean then pouted at his little brother. "Didn't wanna, but the Doc's said I could only come see you if I took 'em."

That cheesy grin and glazy stare was aimed right at Sam. And if he had more energy or could think beyond the throbbing head and aching shoulder, he'd tease his big brother mercilessly – but he'd have to save that for another day.

"Dean, - last time I saw you, your bone – it was…" Sam tried to indicate towards Dean's leg but his arm just didn't move co-ordinately so he gave up. "Out!" Was what he said instead.

Dean chuckled "Sam. My leg isn't gay. It was a comfound pacture. I had surgery. They stuck nails in me, Sammy…..I got nailed!" Dean just giggled more.

Sam smiled eyes starting to close again.

"Gotta ask. Been dying to ask you, Sammy." Dean began squeezing his brother's hand to get him to open those hazel eyes again.

And Sam knew. He just knew his brother still needed the reassurance that Sam was going to be ok by him staying awake a bit longer. Sam really didn't mind, it was mutual. He remembered that he'd been so worried about Dean at the bottom of those stairs. The image of Dean lying there, sprawled, hurting so bad he couldn't barely move…yeah, Dean sitting here with him…he was ok, and that made all his pain and hurts worth it.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"What was the remains? What was it that old man Sandringham kept of his daughter?"

"Um. - Oh yeah – purse. It was silk clutch behind wall under window." Sam's tongue was tripping over itself.

"Sam? The purse? Was there blood on it?" Dean asked enthusiastically.

"No"

"Well, how? – Something inside? What was it? Finger? Hair? Nail clippings?"

"Don't know – no time to look, just burned it." Sam replied.

"Huh."

Sam smiled at his brother, his eyes starting to close again.

"Naw, Sammy, not yet…most fun I've had in days. Don't go sleepies again…" Dean whined.

"Days? Dean? How many?" Sam seemed to have found some reserves, although his eyes kept blinking slowly.

"Um, four I think." Dean was clearly unsure.

"I've been out for four days?" Sam asked his big brother, really fighting a losing battle with sleep.

"No…in and out. You'd wake up and go back to sleep. Sometimes you'd say something, sometimes not. In the start you asked for Dad, Sammy. And for Bobby." A sad heaviness crept into Dean's previously happy voice. "We've even had this conversation before!"

"Sorry D'n" Sam sighed as his eyes finally closed.

"You really scared me there, Sammy. Must have heard how proud I was of you – 'cause your head was swelling up there little bro – thought you might need a hole in your head to release the pressure. Scared the living crap out of me." That heavy sadness was what really stuck in Sam's mind.

"Sorry, Dean…You look like crap – go get rest. I'm gonna be ok. Don't remember who you are at all, big brother, but I'm good now" Sam whispered. His eyes still closed but the sly smile ghosting his lips was gold to Dean.

"Crap? I don't look like crap" Dean smirked as he mumbled. He leaned forward again, grabbed the corded nurses' button and pushed. "If I look like crap, then you look like something the dog rolled in! Hah! – wait, those dog's roll in doggy-do – which is crap, which means we look the same – "

"Dean?" Sam's voice was soft and slurry.

"Yeah?" Sam heard the love and worry in Dean's voice.

"Go sleep it off you stoner" Sam mumbled with a smile, hand still reaching out for his brother. His breathing evened out and Sam was really asleep this time Dean knew. High on pain meds or not, he knew his little brother.

A few minutes later a nurse walks in to Sam's room, finding Dean asleep, his hand under Sam's, his head laying on the edge of Sam's bead. She took her time checking on Sam first. Checking his vitals, recording them on the chart at the foot of his bed, making sure the younger brother was comfortable. Then she walked towards Dean. Gently touched him on his good shoulder to wake him slowly.

After a few moments, Dean opens his eyes and notices the familiar nurse beside him.

"Hi Betty." Dean yawned.

"Hi, Dean. So how are my two favorite patients this evening?" She asked. She was a plump, soft spoken brunette with a caring smile and kind words. Dean had liked her immediately. She took good care of Sam and brought Dean news of him every time she saw Dean.

"He was awake – really awake!" Dean exclaimed excitedly.

"See? I told you he'd start waking more and remembering. Just give him some time to heal. Give yourself time to heal too, Dean!" She admonished. But it was filled with warmth and caring so Dean didn't mind. And Sam was getting better, so, all was better in Dean's world.

Betty smiled and patted Dean on the cheek. "Well, slugger? A promise is a promise after all. So you ready to get back into your bed and sleep? And I mean stay there! Until at least I'm off my shift and you hollering and carrying-on can be someone else's problem!"

"I promised, didn't I?!" Dean bemoaned.

"Good" she said as she crouched down, released the breaks on his wheel chair, backed out and turned around careful of his casted leg sticking straight out.

"Now remember," The nurse lectured kindly. "Do not use that shoulder, no weight on it at all and use that sling at all times. A broken scapula will take a few weeks, even month to heal up and I know how eager you are to get out of here." Betty's winning smile and head shaking was enough to get Dean to laugh a bit at himself too, that and the awesome pain-killers coursing through his veins, making him feel no pain tonight!

"Yeah, Betty, enough with the lectures! Just take me home to my bed, sweetheart!" He laughed back.

"Oh, hunny. If I was a few decades younger and you were sporting less plaster and less bandages, we'd be home in any bed, sugar!" She teased. It had become a familiar game with them. One they both enjoyed as she wheeled him away from Sammy sleeping in the hospital bed.

Dean turned to look at him again. This time Sam still had that sheepish grin on his face and it reminded him of when he was small, and Dean was his mother, his father, his caretaker and Dean could make everything alright for his little brother with a word, with a story. Or even with just spending quiet time together. It was always about them being together. And being separated, even by a few rooms while they were recovering, was hard on him.

"Is he really going to be ok?" Dean asked earnestly, all masks down. The worry, the waiting, the love clear on his face as his freckles to Betty.

"Yes, sweetie. He'll be just fine. After all, he has you, Dean." She answered as she wheeled him back to his own room.


End file.
